


Counting Stars

by Bugsyboo1313



Category: Sherlock (TV), The Fault in Our Stars - John Green
Genre: Cancer, Friendship, Gen, Lung Cancer
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-01
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-01-14 03:35:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1251280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bugsyboo1313/pseuds/Bugsyboo1313
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rated: T</p><p>Pairings: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Molly Hooper & Greg Lestrade</p><p>WARNINGS: Drug references, language, depressing thoughts</p><p>Summary: John Watson is 16 years old and has thyroid lung cancer. To release him from his depressing thoughts of possibly dying and knowing he won't live for much longer, his mother sends him to a support group to discuss his feelings. Little does he know his life will become a little infinity when he meets a certain someone. That being Sherlock Holmes.</p><p>*I don not own Sherlock or The Fault In Our Stars. They belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and John Green. This story was written for entertainment purposes only.*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. September

**Counting Stars (Chapter 1)**

**Sherlock / The Fault In Our Stars**

September

* * *

**Rated:** T

 **Pairings:** Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Molly Hooper & Greg Lestrade

 **WARNINGS:**   _Drug references, language, depressing thoughts_

 _Summary:_ John Watson is 16 years old and has thyroid lung cancer. To release him from his depressing thoughts of possibly dying and knowing he won't live for much longer, his mother sends him to a support group to discuss his feelings. Little does he know his life will become a little infinity when he meets a certain someone. That being Sherlock Holmes.

_***I don not own Sherlock or The Fault In Our Stars. They belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and John Green. This story was written for entertainment purposes only.*** _

* * *

69\. That's how many days it's been since my 16th birthday. Not that I've been counting. Today is the anniversary of a tragic event for me, and I know, this is a depressing way to begin my story. You're probably thinking,  _Why the hell is he starting in such a downcast nature,_ but that's the whole point of this. This is the story of my real beginning.

1,095 days ago, 4.5 miles away at the local hospital, I had been told my life would possibly end ten or twenty years earlier than it normally should. I've lived three years with this disease, and now I know I will never be able to escape the painful hell I have to swim through everyday.

Five foot four. That's how tall I am. No more, no less, and it's a lot shorter height than most boys I know. But that has nothing to do with my disease; that was just a trait I inherited from my mother. I have sandy-blonde hair that sweeps over the top of my skull in a specific fashion, as I like it as flat as possible. My brightly-colored eyes match the t-shirt I have on. Sky blue, no hint of grey in them at all; just a dash of white.

Most people believe me to be just an ordinary teenager, but to be honest, I have to work twice as hard as any kid. They just don't understand the truth. Sure I'd love to have a perfect life with a girlfriend (or boyfriend...?), but all thanks to my weakness I developed a few years back, that won't happen. Nothing happens to me.

Unfortunately, I have thyroid lung cancer. My cells started to grow uncontrollably when I had just transformed into a teenager, and I first discovered it one night when I woke up and couldn't breathe. I even had to reach over to my bedside table and text my mum to come and help because I couldn't speak a syllable. She always has her phone on in case of an emergency, at which point this was.

I think it was near 3 A.M. when we went flying to the hospital. I didn't believe my mum would actually call an ambulance, but I guess the shaking state of me just sent her into a spasm. My dad came along too, despite his studies he was doing to train for the Army.

I was told I went into an unconscious condition after about fifteen minutes when they started to do some operation on my ribs from what I felt. I was mistaken when I woke up the following afternoon and had some sort of tube connected to my nostrils.

I have to wear the cannula now all the time, except when I take it off for a few minutes to get dressed every morning. The wire splits under my neck, wraps around my ears, and comes together again at my nostrils. I was diseased with a type of cancer in which my lungs fill up with fluids every now and then and I have to be taken to the emergency room to drain them. They don't pump air to my body and refuse for me to be allowed to breathe properly, so I have to carry around a large oxygen tank that pumps air through me every couple minutes. I believe it gives me two liters of oxygen per few minutes, just so I am able to be human. I have to rely on an oxygen tank to keep me alive.

I'm not even sure what the fluid is that's inside me. It somehow just seeps into my lungs so I can't inhale ever once in a while. That happens maybe three times a year, and it certainly is a scare for my parents, because one of these days they know they're going to loose me.

So, as expected, I get extra care around the house. I can't do any physical activities because of my weakness, but I've found some other things that interest me instead. Books are a great thing I've come by, as I seem to have one in my hand at all times. Mostly for school it will be a history novel, my best and favorite subject to learn about. I go to a private school to avoid any chance of being bullied or pushed around at a local school. Sure, my friends are limited, but I'd rather be safe than be the number one target on campus.

On weekends, instead of going to church like most kids do, I go to a cancer support group every single Sunday. It's pretty boring, as we always tall about the same things, but we always discuss our struggles, loses, progress with our health, stuff like that. Not even all the kids there suffer from cancer. Some just go because they have some other illness, like a permanent injury or they're deaf in one ear. The leader of our group, Phillip Anderson, has no disease but gladly runs the meetings anyways. I think his grandmother had cancer, so he has a sort of relationship with the disease. He's been immune to it a couple times, but it's never fully developed in his cells. They've threatened to grow uncontrollably before, but they seemed to pull away and function properly in the end.

My mum and I say nothing on the car ride to the small building in the middle of town. I live in central London, but it's more open compared to the city part. She also turns the radio on even if I have distaste with the music notes. She tunes the volume so its lower and I only listen to it delicately while the window is down and my blonde locks blow towards the front of my hairline. The early September breeze feels glorious on my cheeks, and I can even feel some of it running through the small gap between my nose and the tube connected to it.

My hopes kinda die when we turn into the bumpy parking lot, my mum halting the car in the far corner even though there weren't any other vehicles around. She never asks me if I'm ready; instead she just gives me a casual nod and I slowly rise from the car seat and step onto the pavement. I have a little trouble getting out and settling my oxygen tank on the ground, but eventually I am all situated and can head towards the building. Now mind you, I literally do not carry around an oxygen tank. It's in something resembling a small duffle bag that I can wheel around. The outside fabric is an Army camouflage pattern and the handle is pitch-black.

As I stride lousily over to the front of the building where I go for the group meetings, my mum rolls down the window and shouts so I can hear. "Hey, try to make some friends today!"

I kinda snort in a goofed-up way. "No promises Mum," I mumble back.

There door handle feels cold like ice, as it always is, and I slip inside and yank my bag behind me so the wheels don't get stuck on the small bump below the door's base. Just inside is an open room with a few couches and a table, but our usual gathering place is downstairs in the basement. It's not a creepy basement like most people would picture, as I guess the owners tried to make the atmosphere as comfy as possible.

There are a few kids my age around, two to be exact, and they smile and wave as I pass by. "Hey, John," they both say, making me feel welcome that morning. Both are teenagers who come to the support group; one is a girl with ginger hair named Molly Hooper, and the other is a close friend of mine. Mary Morstan was my past girlfriend once upon a time, but even though we broke up I still consider her to be my best friend. Her short, blonde hair curls on the bottom, and she always pulls it back off her face with pink and purple clips.

I head around the corner for the elevator, since I run out of breath easily when hiking up and down stairs while carrying an almost five pound tank. Even then the cannula can't pump enough oxygen into me quickly enough. Sometimes I have the ability to go down, but no way on the face of the earth could I hike up a flight of steps.

That's when I accidentally ran into him. Tall, about six foot, brunette curls for hair, lovely blue, grey,  _and_ green eyes, but the thing that stood out the most were his cheekbones. Sharp, high, they made his face look longer and leaner than it would have been without them.

First I hit his foot and then I fully slammed into him, causing the stranger to stumble back but stay on his feet remarkably. I'm extremely clumsy. The collision gave me quite a scare and I jumped in fear that I'd hurt him. Normally I'm not as cautious, since I am the strongest and toughest of any of my 'friends', but when I don't know the person, I act like a complete idiot.

Once he'd recovered and had his hands on my shoulders for balance and support, I couldn't help but yelp out. "Sorry!" I apologized, briefly glancing up at his forehead and then switching my focus back down to the tiled floor. It didn't stay there for long as I looked up to mean what I said and show it with my expression.

"Oh," was the first thing he said to me. It wasn't in a stupid way, as in not knowing how to respond, but it was more of a startled state. "It's okay," he assured, and I gave him a cheeky smile in return. His voice was deeper than it should have been for a kid only a year younger than me.

"So," I fumbled again, "are you new here?" It seemed the legit question to ask; the only one that would get me somewhere.

"Yeah. Don't understand why my ridiculous mother is making me come to these meetings." His attitude was slightly negative and I realized he judged people significantly.

"Well, the whole point of coming is because you have a disease. I'm assuming that's true with yourself as well?"

"Yeah. And?" He looked at me for a reasonable comeback. I didn't have anything to say.

"You've got lung cancer," he suddenly said, staring down at the cannula in my nose and the oxygen tank below my left hip. I raised my eyebrow at him; it was partially obvious, but the other half of my brain left me curious.

"What else do you assume?" I asked, stepping back a few paces and extending up to my full height.

"Oh, I can deduce a lot about you," he claimed, sounding so positive yet like a stalker at the same moment.

"Deduce?" I noticed, whatever that meant. "Like what?"

The unknown teenager gave a long drag of air before speaking out again. "From your looks, you've got a sister who's becoming an alcoholic. She's recently been starting to drink beer almost every night and you try to avoid her because of the emotional swings she goes through." I almost choked on my own spit. "She's recently dumped all her anger out on you for no apparent reason and now you feel ashamed that she's your sibling." This guy was insane. Not only was he telling secrets about my family, but he was also saying it  _to my face._  I guess I asked for it, but of all the things he could say, he mentioned my sister's drinking problem. After all, she is only three years older than me.

"You yourself are quite lonesome. You injured your left shoulder when you were a child and that's why you walk with a funny stride." I opened my mouth in an 'excuse me' sort of manner. "You've got strong moral principles, which is probably why you can't trust me at this very instant. You're looking at me with such a gesture that I must be the most obnoxious person alive." I swallowed and tried to interrupt him, but he kept ranting on with haste.

"The cannula connected to your nostrils shows you're currently suffering from lung cancer, which by the way I'm so sorry to hear about, and perhaps that's why your mother thinks you're so lonely. No wonder she's sending you to a cancer support group." I actually grinned when he apologized so randomly in the middle of his sentence. "It's remarkable how much I can decipher about a human when I first encounter them by just looking at them."

"Well, to be honest, it was a bit rude," I told him.

I found it unnatural when he smiled like the clouds had parted in the sky and the sun had projected a spotlight onto his figure.

"Oh, and one more thing," he began, but I cut him off with a lousy sigh. "I'm thrilled that you're the only person I've met who can stand my behavior." I stared at him with wide eyes. I guess the tube in my nose was distracting, as he kept lowering his gaze to observe it. I didn't see why it attracted so much attention. I hated it when people stared at me in public for having a physical weakness.

I licked my lips before the corners of my mouth lifted a little. The suit he was wearing was free of wrinkles, but his outfit fit him in style. He didn't try to look fancy; I suppose it was just his normal wardrobe. Like mine being a pair of jeans, a plaid long-sleeved shirt, and my favorite black jacket. For shoes, I stuck with the classic converse sneakers. "What makes you say that?" I questioned, hinting for a sign of proof.

He looked like I was a toy but rolled with it anyways. Then, he dedicated that second to showing me the widest smile he could muster. "Because you didn't say 'piss off' when I was decoding you."

Before I could come back with a sort of reply, he swept by me with long strides of his legs. I think my heart stopped, which would have been a major disaster considering my lungs didn't function in the first place. And to add to the pile, my brain wasn't receiving messages either.

He left me starring at the blank wall without even telling me his name. I tried to digest his words but didn't come across any help. I let out a noise that was sort of like a chuckle. I was slightly confused by his ability and knowledge to do such a skilled trick, without even asking me about my life beforehand.

And yet at the same time, I was highly amused.


	2. Goodness Gracious

**Counting Stars (Chapter 2)**

Goodness Gracious

* * *

No one in our support group ever wants to meet downstairs. I mean, who wouldn't? It's a basement, aka dark, creepy, lots of shadows, except for a few windows on three walls that always have the blinds pulled over them. If they would actually open them, another reason being it's warm outside, it would be a pretty nice room. It's comfy on its own; there's a couch on the far wall, and the rest of the chairs have cushions on the seats and are arranged in a circle, couch included.

A folding table is always set up with drinks, particularly lemonade, and snacks like cookies, crackers, and certain vegetables. No peanut butter is allowed because of allergy purposes, but that just means I can eat all the peanut butter I want at home.

My friend Greg Lestrade, who's half blind, sits on the far right side of the couch, cool sunglasses perched on his nose to make him look spiffy. His hair is short and little hairs stick up on his hair, their color resembling a pitch-black sky. Molly Hooper and Mary Morstan are still upstairs, but our group leader Anderson, a kid named Henry Knight, and the new tall guy with curly brown hair are already seated and immersed in a conversation. Lestrade sits alone, nit talking to anyone even if he's the joker of us all.

I drag my wheeled oxygen tank over to the empty chair next to him. The kid with no name yet sits across from me in the circle and Anderson is always in the center of the entire group. I scan the mostly empty room with my eyes and nite who sits where, even if they had possibly passed away a few days prior from battling a disease.  _Molly, Mary, Henry, Irene, new kid, Anderson, Sally, Jim, me, Greg._ There are a few empty spaces between us, and I assume either no one wants to come or we lost a whole bunch of our friends.

The elevator door pulls open and the two girls step out, the ginger and blonde sitting next to each other. They both smile and ask how I'm doing, and I always reply the same thing. "Fine, thanks."

Our meeting starts a few minutes late since we all tell Anderson who is here, and he waits for them to join us down in the basement. Lestrade nibbles on a chocolate chip cookie and Mary sips from a Dixie cup filled with pink lemonade. Jim sits right next to me and gloats. He's the bully of the group and no one seems to like him, but when he cooperates he's actually a pretty nice guy. I forget what type of disease he has, but it has something to do with his brain, I remember that much. His black hair is always slicked back by a bomb and looks wet, possibly a factor if he takes a shower every morning. But when he gets bored in our support group meetings, he starts to elbow me in the ribs for fun, which is not particularly healthy for my lungs.

Every meeting starts the same usual way: an introduction of ourselves. We say our name, age and how we're doing.  _John, 16, been great,_ is what I would say when they reach me. Greg always begins since he's so willing to share his thoughts, and then when Molly goes she resembles a mouse. We go right around the circle, meaning I am last.

I know Mary has breast cancer, but I truly can't recall half of the diseases in the room. I've lost track or tend to zone out for most of our time together. Lestrade is half blind, Jim has a brain problem, and I really don't know anything else.

I do perk up a little however when the new addition to our group is up to speak for the first time. In order to be heard, he chooses to stand and show off. He towers over us with his wondering blue-green eyes, not feeling the least bit nervous as he prepares his short speech. "My name is Sherlock Holmes," he says, his voice rising at the end of his sentence. "I've been in remission for about half a year now." There's a slight noise of clapping around the cluster of chairs, congratulating him on his short recovery period.

Anderson speaks over the banging of hands and offers Sherlock an opportunity to tell a bit about himself. "What should we know about you?"

"Well, as one of you already knows," he gestures to me with his entire hand, palm up to the ceiling, "I've got a rather odd talent."

He doesn't know my name yet, but I can't help but comment back on the lacking statement. "I'll say," I mumble under my breath, and only Greg hears me. He finds it hilarious and bursts out into laughter. I give a slight chuckle too and nudge him with my elbow, smiling effortlessly and secretly telling him to shut up. What I find interesting is that our newcomer doesn't give a look and explain how we're being rude, and instead he just smirks like he's proud of himself.

"And what kind of skill is this?" Anderson asks, the one who seems 100% remotely engaged in the conversation. Of course us others are listening and paying attention, and occasionally there's a crack of someone popping air in their joint or cracking a snack with their jaw. A slurp made be heard when someone is drinking, but everyone is for the most part quiet.

Holmes looks around the circle once before going on. I think he's doing what he did to me to everyone else. "I can tell almost your whole life story by one look at you."

Most of the girls pause and look disgusted. "Isn't that a tad bit creepy?" Irene questions, sitting with perfect posture in her chair.

"No kidding," Henry adds.

"It's true." I decide to share our story of our first letting in shorter terms. "I've seen him do it. Not ten minutes ago as well." The new kid gives me a heartwarming smile, like I'm telling a compliment about him.

The brunette turns his head to Henry and inputs something he really shouldn't have said. "Oh, and says the one who had a father who worked in a science lab as a security guard and spied on people all day." The receiver went dead quiet and refused to add anything else.

She's so appalled that Molly has to mention an important point to him. "You do still know that was personal and didn't need to be claimed out loud, right?"

"I take pride in my ability to make myself more confident and brilliant than other human beings." A hush went over the room and we all sat stunned. Who did this guy think he was? A superior god? In my opinion, he seemed like a jerk.

But I shouldn't judge him right away, because I barely even know the dude.

"So..." I think that's the first time someone has sent Anderson into silence, not knowing how to pick up the discussion again. "Would you like to share some of your fears with the group, Sherlock?"

"My fears?" He sounds both willing yet uncomprehending at the same moment, his voice ending the question in a high-pitched note. "I'm sure I have some, but they're not coming to me right now. And why I would tell you anyways is ridiculous, considering my fears are personal."

Jim shifted next to me and raised his hand a little, removing his opposite hand from his mouth. He tends to chew on his fingernails, and I find the tiny chomping noises to be distracting and disgusting. "But, we all did it when we first came here. Shared our fears I mean."

"Well I'm sorry to inform you that you won't be getting answers from me." I felt a tap on my shoulder to my left. Lestrade had grabbed my attention from the couch, and I breathed out of my mouth, my nose exhaling some air into the cannula. He made a gesture with his hands, telling me without words that this newbie was crazy. I whispered back, "I know," nodding my head in agreement.

"Okay, then we shall be moving on, I guess." From the alarmed sound of his voice, Anderson no longer wanted to talk to such a rude person. Sally goes next, and then I dread the moment when it's Jim's turn to go.

"I'm Jim Moriarty," he says smugly, claiming his place as the most outgoing and powerful in the group. "15 years old, 16 next week. I hate the internal distinction my brain is supplying me with, but I'm hanging in there." He sits Bach down and I know it's my small moment in the spotlight. I hate being pushed into talking alone in front of people, but I've learned to deal with it in my time being here.

Phillip Anderson lets me sit when I speak, since he knows I have problems with breathing even when I have to stand up. Besides, I'm comfy and tend to be lazy. So instead of standing, I elect to sit up a little higher in my seat, closing off the introductions with more or less of a bang.

"Hi everybody. As most of you already know, I'm John." Sherlock had his eyes locked on me, and I don't know why my cheeks become hot and turn pink. "I turned 16 a few months ago. Have ling cancer, and I'm doing okay."

"Have they gotten better?" Mary fires a question at me with a soft tone. She always talks like that, since she's a very close friend of mine. A few heads turn to look at her, and then they flew back yo me as I report the news.

"Sadly, no. Nothing has progressed dramatically, but my lungs haven't gotten worse either. Thanks for asking." She smiles cutely and hunches back in her chair, her blonde hair neatly swept off the side of her forehead.

Our meeting continues with us telling personal stories, which Holmes doesn't get into. He just dist patiently and listens, being polite unlike the manners he was showing earlier. The setup of our discussions is the same every week. Introductions, stories, life, and then we close off with reading a list of names of people who used to be with us and have now passed away. We all stand, including me, and hold hands in our circle. The list goes on and on, but when it's finally over Anderson wishes us good do and lets us be free for the remained if our Sunday. Our meetings typically last an hour, but today we didn't stay for as long and it's only 1:53 P.M.

I have to take the elevator to get back upstairs, because if I don't I'll surely pass out. The cannula slid a little out of place as I stood to depart, and so as I push the button to open the doors I stick it back into the position so it doesn't bother me. Molly and Lestrade both get into the elevator with me, and I say farewell as I leave them and go to stand outside and wait for my mom. She usually leaves the house when we have a quarter of an hour left, and so today she is still on the road.

I'm surprised to see Sherlock is standing alone on the sidewalk, bouncing on his feet with his arms behind his back. I know he's a bit of an odd fellow, but I decide to get along with him and try to make a new friend anyways. I never told him something mean earlier in our meeting, so I suppose I don't have to apologize for it.

"Hello." He turns around to come in eye contact with me.

"Oh. Hi." I can tell he's bad with talking to people.

"You got an odd sort of personality." My sentence folds out into a whisper because I don't really want him to hear me.

"And you don't?" he questions back, raising an eyebrow for an effect. I stare at the parking lot in disbelief.

"Sorry." I'm completely startled when I hear the word pop out of his mouth. "That was a bit, uncalled for."

"Yeah...Just a bit." I watch him as he shuffles around, trying to plan his next move with caution.

He finally comes to a wise decision and has to bend his head down a tad to look at me in the eyes. "What's your name?"

I find myself replying quickly without even any hint of comprehension, knowing that Sherlock had learned my name earlier. "John."

"What's your full name?" He wants more than just what I told him.

"John H. Watson."

"What does the 'H' stand for?"

"Why would I tell you that?" I ask, giving him a look because he's almost a total stranger to me. "For god's sake, you could be a serial killer for all I know."

He nods his head in amusement. "Not far off on the target, actually." My pupils go wide in alarm.

"That's a joke right?" I just want to make sure as I lowered my eyelids to squint with suspicion at him.

"Of course it was."

"Oh good." You can pick out the relief in my voice. There's a moment of silence before I pick up the conversation again. "Funny thing you did to me, right when I first approached you. Nice way to meet someone for the first time."

"Are you insulting my behavioral actions?"

I back up a little in fright. "No!" The wheels on my oxygen tank get stuck in a crack that had formed in the pavement, but it's not enough for me to trip over it. "It's just so..." I stumble to find the right phrase, "not ordinary."

Holmes just sort of hums and I bend my head down, almost in shame. He speaks before I can come to mu senses to do so first. "I'm quite surprised you didn't say something much harsher when I made those deductions about you."

"And why's that?" I ask, curious.

"That's not how people normally respond."

"What do people normally say?"

He fires back a rude remark. "Piss off."

I laugh a little and roll my bag I carry with me at all times slightly closer. "So am I enlightening you?" I wonder, thinking that meant I was different and unique compared to other humans. Perhaps I was meant to meet this guy, that I would have a strong bond with him.

"Maybe. I think you're trying to recruit yourself."

"As in?"

He smiles at me like I'm a pleasant flower. "You still trust me."

I stare with my lips open for a few seconds in silence before I get up the nerve to get to know him better. "And what makes you say that?"

"You know where to balance you right and wrongs on a scale. Strong moral principles. If you thought I was the incorrect person to hang around, you wouldn't be talking to me right now."

He's insane yet speaks every word as the truth. I'm both sent into amazement and flattery at the same time. "Damn," I compliment, "you're absolutely right." He smirks once more to prove the truth as he knows so. "I'll give you credit for that one."

He's frozen like a statue and watches my every move. I even gesture my hand to him as a sign of overwhelming shock and yet he remains still. "Why are you staring at me?" I suddenly blurt out, hoping the answer is not what I think it is.  _Come on, I just met the guy for god's sake. Surely he wouldn't get interests in me that quickly._

"Because John H. Watson —"

"Just John," I say, cutting him off.

He goes on like nothing happened. "You're going to be some very good use to me."

"And how do you know that?" I question, knowing he won't get away with it this time.

"Because you know that helping me is the right thing to do. Again, strong moral principles," he adds, winking in my direction.

I catch on that he didn't mention what I was helping him with. "So, what am I to do?"

He smiles. "Why not influence a life?" And with his comment he decides to leave me be, strolling down the sidewalk so I am alone to consider his thought. I let my oxygen tank flow air into me, and I tap my foot on the ground to get rid of my stumped posture.

I feel a vibration against my thigh and pull out my cell phone. A message has been sent to me from an unknown number, but I read the text anyways. One word is flashing on the screen, and after it come two initials which undoubtedly belong to my new oddly-made friend. I look up from the device and see Sherlock slouching against the corner of the next building over, a grin spread over his cheeks and, to my slight horror, an unlit cigarette in his mouth.

**Dinner? -SH**


	3. Clarity

**Counting Stars (Chapter 3)**

Clarity

* * *

**When? –JW**

I cannot believe I found myself texting someone I knew 0.01% about right back, especially after I thought he was messing with me when he pulled out the cigarette. Lung cancer dude, not funny. I kind of gave him my threatening eyebrow when I looked up to find him smirking at me. Just standing there,  _staring_ at me. If this guy fancied me, I don't think it's going to get very far. He had some nerve to scan my entire complexion before removing his gaze entirely to finally give me a response back.

**Today, genius. –SH**

I flashed my eyes at the screen and checked the spot where he was standing further away. I really didn't think Sherlock knew what he was doing. If he was playing with me because he thought I would 'tag along easily', get your presumptions straight mate.

**We've known each other for about three minutes, and you want me to randomly eat food with you? You must be joking. –JW**

**I would never lie to you John Hamish Watson. –SH**

**I told you, just John. –JW**

**So will you? –SH**

**What the hell are you doing? Trying to lead me on? –JW**

**No! I'm asking a simple question is all. –SH**

I sighed after a complicated battle through typed words and phrases. I however did not stop to flash a glance at Holmes from across an alley that only led to a dead end with some spray paint on the brick wall blocking an exit. I made my choice and decided to test him once more.

**Where? –JW**

I caught his eye and cringed inside with affection when the perfect edge of his lips molded into a pleased grin, and I sort of shot a surge of energy through my veins and flicked a switch in my brain that made me smile in return. A buzz from my phone told me he'd answered, but he didn't take his eyes off my face as I bent my neck to read it.

**My house. Where else? It's not a date, just in case you fancy me. –SH**

Now that made me snicker. I'm pretty sure I'm straight Sherlock. Like that was going to change, and quite sooner than I expected to as well. I unfortunately came back with a brilliant but teasing response, putting myself down and make me seem to have an obnoxious personality. It wasn't quite the legitimate way to make a first impression.

**I was actually going to say your remark about you. –JW**

**Oh, getting feisty now, are we? –SH**

**Says the teenager who can't keep his bloody eyes off me. –JW**

I realized afterwards that it was not the best thing to say back. But to my own humor, it made my new friend laugh. I put my head in my free hand and felt embarrassed while I felt the smooth tube in my nose brush against the lines in my palm. I nearly had a heart attack when I lifted my head up to find his towering, skinny figure standing not a foot from the oxygen tank stored by my side.

He raised his eyebrows as he looked stared down on me, still fascinated with what I picked out to be my hair or something. Maybe my eyes would be a better option.

"So are you coming?" he asked, speaking with the unlit cigarette still positioned between his lips.

"I'll consider your offer. But do me a favor, ditch the stick. If you think it makes you look cool, give me a break."

He touched a hand to his chest and made a face which resembled a hurt expression. You could tell he did it on purpose. God, even I can notice he's a horrible actor. Sadly I'm becoming like him already, noticing weird things about people.

"Why so uptight?" he questioned, even though I never said a word with urgency or roughness. I tilted my neck and decided to examine the neat curls in his brunette hair while I ranted on.

"Let me tell you this straightforwardly. You're just making me look weaker. Knowing I have lung cancer and pulling out a cigarette which can only increase the risks of my health is unintentional." While I went on with intensity he seemed to just be amused. Sherlock didn't say a word and remained calm while surprisingly smiling.

"And anyways," I added on, "you're basically hurting yourself. You already have cancer too, whether you want to believe it or not. You're not invincible; it can still hurt you, so why bother lighting it. It makes me sick when others don't understand the complexity of human needs. Just so you're aware, having delicate lungs is tough to deal with. Not being able to breathe sucks!" Taking deep inhales, I was satisfied that I had taught someone an important lesson that day.

And very contently, Holmes just watched me in amazement. I think it actually took him a few seconds to gather up a decent cluster of words to fire back at me. "The funny thing is no harm is done unless it's lit."

"Okay…?" His hint wasn't getting to me.

"I'm not that mean."

"Pardon?"

"I've never lit one."

My entire face contracted into a frown. "Are you messing with me?" I pressured, "because it's not cool."

"Nope." He implied that comment very directly with honesty, and I shook my head in disbelief when he didn't finish his statement. "It's a metaphor." Oh lord, intense vocabulary approaching.

"And how is that?" I wondered, placing my hands on my hips to show how sassy I could be when I wanted to.

"If you put a deadly item between your teeth but never give it the power to kill you, what can go wrong? So I call it a metaphor."

"Catchy."

"I'd hoped you'd like it."

At that instant my mother pulled up in her navy blue sedan, ready and cheerful as ever to hear how the oh so thrilling support group meeting went. She rolled down the window and spoke through the empty car to me.

"Hey, ready to go?" I stood stock still on the curb, bouncing on the balls of my feet for entertainment. Then, pressing the edges of my teeth together and biting my lower lip for a dramatic effect, I glanced back and gave her a reply. The unnatural thing was that she let me go roaming with an older boy, seventeen years old, and she didn't know a single detail of history about him.

"Actually, I've got plans with Sherlock Holmes tonight."

* * *

The one thing I dreaded most about visiting Sherlock's home was first getting in the car with him. But to my astonishment, he did remarkably well and paced the smooth ride with a steady timing. While we were on the way down some subtle streets, he leaned over the handle that shifts the gears of the vehicle and insisted I tell him my past.

"I was thirteen years old when they found the cancer inside me," I told him, drifting off into space as I was touchy as talking about my medical problems with random people. "And thyroid, stage four at that age, dreadful," I openly admitted. I ran a hand through my blond locks and exhaled tremendously before going on. "My parents certainly thought they were going to lose me. And every once in a while my lungs fill up with fluid. The worst was the first time it happened in the hospital, almost directly after they'd found it lurking in my body." My story was finely detailed as I listened to the rush of the wind outside the car windows.

"That should have been the end of me. I shouldn't have lived beyond that point, but when the medications kicked in and I started to feel better, the doctors almost thought I would be strong enough to fight it off. Obviously that's not possible," I said sadly, but Sherlock nodded his head and liked the sound of my voice, so I just kept talking.

"When they began testing on the recovery status with the drugs, they actually found it to be working. In over half the patients they tested it on, no changes were visible, but for some odd reason with me, I've gotten lucky." Holmes looked impressed and grateful that I got a second chance at life, as opposed to leaving the world just as I'd became a teenager.

"With the other kids it's been working on, they've called it 'the miracle process.' And I guess that's something to be positive about."

"Indeed so," the taller boy cheekily said to me. As our conversation stirred we pulled into the driveway of a fancy, expensive house. I almost had a hard time getting out of his car because I had my eyes glued to the archways surrounding the front door.

"Come on in," Sherlock told me, walking ahead first while I lagged behind, rolling my oxygen tank over the brick pathway. "My parents should be home, so you'll get to meet them." He pulled out a set of keys from his back pocket and unlocked the entrance, slipping inside and holding the barrier open so I could tenderly ascend behind with much effort. As soon as the door clicked shut to announce our arrival, Sherlock shouted out to the silence, "Hey, I'm home."

Just ahead in what I assumed to be the kitchen from the looks of a refrigerator popped out a woman, undoubtedly Sherlock's mother. "Oh, hello!" she greeted in a most cheerful and jolly manner, and she paused when she first laid eyes on me. "Have you picked up a new friend?" Mrs. Holmes wondered, wiping her sticky hands on a spotted towel.

"Huh?" her son hummed more than spoke, and he pointed to me, maybe acting stupid on purpose. "Yeah," he concluded, though you could tell by the indication he wasn't entirely sure. "This is John Hamish Watson," he addressed as I removed my dominant hand from the handle of my bag on wheels.

"Um, you can just call me John," I corrected, extending out a hand to properly give a polite arrival.

"Well, we'd love to have you stay for supper, John," Mrs. Holmes inquired, apparently aware that I'd already been summoned over to their household minutes previously.

"Yeah. Thanks for having me come," I happily indicated to her, and Sherlock seemed like he'd had enough.

"Right. We're just going to chill out for a while. Just give us a shout when it's time to eat."

"As you wish," his mum replied, and she bustled off to help her husband cook fresh bread for their final meal of the day.

Sherlock led the way down the main hallway to a white door on the right, pushing it open to reveal something I regretted. Stairs. Of all things in the universe, it had to be a staircase leading down to a basement. He skipped easily and descended to the bottom, stopping when he got there to turn and face me. I'd only made it down four steps, hauling my oxygen tank with one arm as my second hand grasped the railing for support.

At least he was nice enough to wait till I had one step remaining to start pacing again, and I heard him grumble before becoming enlightened again to give me a bit of information. "This is where I sleep," he informed, spreading his arms wide as I scanned the space in awe. All sorts of scientific tools littered the walls, along with awards he'd earned in school from various teachers over the years. On a counter was a real human skull, and I didn't bother asking about it. A fantastic bookshelf that lined the carpet all the way to the ceiling was on the left wall, filled with any novel you could imagine, including an entire collection of encyclopedias. I was beginning to think this guy was a nerd, but hey, so was I so I had to accept it. A fireplace was right ahead, and on the far right where the space went around a slight corner was a bar counter, separating the family living room space to the open area of where Sherlock slept. My wonderland got distracted however when Sherlock turned hastily and I saw the head of another human being sitting in a lounge chair not too far away.

"Mycroft, will you leave us in peace," Sherlock shot with a massive amount of hate, and I got the first glimpse of his brother's face as he spun around to take in the rude, abrupt request. The older sibling was a little pudgier around the stomach area and had flat hair instead that was fashioned in an unusual style.

"The burden of having you around is the endless demands. I am older Sherlock. I have a right to freedom of frolicking around our home just as much as you do. I'm not a waste of space as you so poetically put it." Mycroft was just as stubborn as his younger sibling and did in fact have the same special talents he had.

"Can't you see I'm busy?" Sherlock shot at him, using me as a lame excuse for us to be alone.

"Oh no!" I exclaimed, alarmed. "Don't drag me into this argument."

"Well," the older Holmes son dragged, coming to stand level with me. He was at least a head taller and certainly had a pompous posture. "Whoever you are," and I cut him off with an annoyed sneer, teeth barely seeable behind my agape mouth, "you'd best get out while you can. It wouldn't be wise to trust my brother." At the putdown the sibling with the curly hair rolled his eyes in an over exaggeration, like a hyperbole.

"Who says I trust him?" I mocked, giving him a glare.

"I can see it in you."

"Oh for God's sake, I don't want to hear it. I've only just met him."

"It's your decision. But I can already tell you'll make a terrible mistake you  _will_ regret later." I tapped my foot on the floor to show I wasn't interested and Sherlock ordered, "Bye bye Mikey."

Mycroft pivoted on the spot and his brother gave him a sweet smile. "Unwise, brother mine," he lastly inputted, and I gave my new friend an indication that the older sibling was crazy once he'd ascended halfway up the basement stairs.

"In case you haven't guessed yet, that's my older brother Mycroft," the tall boy informed, and I nodded in relief. "He can be a rubbish brother sometimes." I laughed at his funny behavior. I cut off suddenly and gripped my stomach, making Sherlock react to my violent move.

"Sorry," I apologized. "I just need to sit down."

"Oh. Yeah," Holmes muttered awkwardly. "Feel free."

"I know it's stupid," I implied. "I just can't undergo massive climbs or steep descents like that. It makes me run out of air."

"It's no problem," Sherlock assured, taking a seat on the sinking cushions next to me. After several long moments of silence, he spoke up again and placed his feet on the table before a flat screen television. "So, tell me about yourself." He pressed a hand upwards to prove a point, but I thought the gesture was unnecessary. "And I don't mean your past cancer history," he fixed his clarification, "I mean the life of John Hamish Watson."

I giggled at his continued attempt to extend my name than was needed. "Um," I began, finding myself stuck because I was awful at sharing stories.

"Anything at all. Hobbies, passions, fandoms, favorite movies, whatever you like. The odd little things that keep you going."

"Well, in that case…Uh, I don't particularly have any passions. I do enjoy reading and writing…"

"Writing? I never would have guessed."

"Yeah," I sighed it a way to shake it off. "It just sort of happened. Nothing specific. That was the first thing my mother suggested I do. I mean, when she thought…" I overdid the emphasis on the word  _thought_ , "I was depressed. I've never been depressed."

Sherlock nodded in approval. "Well, what did you write? Your own stories, biographies, a complete set of dialogue and nothing else, a ridiculous series of text messages between two lovers, what was it?" I thought he was foreshadowing a hidden side to our developing friendship, and yes I just gave a spoiler I was unaware of.

"Of every option, none of those," I answered trustfully.

"Really?" he questioned, bewildered.

"Yep. She actually suggested that I start an online blog to 'get out my feelings.' I found it quite a waste of time, and I suck at typing it out for others to read, but it was worth a shot."

"Tell you what; I'd like to find this blog of yours. It's not Tumblr, is it?" he pushed, rather forcefully. I let out of series of hilarious laughs, bursting into a fit of happy bellows.

"No silly! And to be honest, I don't want anyone else reading my blog. I need some series training on how to report successfully."

"I'll help if you'd like…"

"I was completely joking. I'd rather just read my favorite book instead."

"And what's that?" Sherlock wanted to know everything about me in the first 24 hours of our time together.

I closed my eyes and relaxed my head, my cheeks diagonally upwards towards the ceiling. To me, it was the best book ever. Staring into his eyes once more, I let it out in a dreamy state. " _The Hobbit_ by J.R.R. Tolkien."

"Ah. I've heard of it but never read it."

I stopped ever muscle in my body. I even think my heart ceased to beat I was so shocked. I had paused with my movements while I lengthened the look I gave him, my left wrist tangled in my mass of blond locks. I shook my head to pretend I didn't bring in the sound he just let escape from his lips.

"Wait," I coughed gently, "what did you say?" I was quiet for the millionth time that day as he just smirked at me. "That's like a classic."

"You heard me perfectly."

I don't think my jaw ever dropped so far in all my life. Holmes grinned sheepishly and crossed his pale arms.

"Introduce me to this brilliant book of yours, John," he said.

I took the fingers on my right hand as I was sitting on his left and pushed his face away delicately, his sharp cheekbone pressing into my skin. The gentle shove I presented him with was enough to say 'get out of here' in an unbelievable circumstance. "Indeed," I agreed.

That was us. The two crazy teenagers who went to a lousy support group on Sundays but found a better road out of it; a road that led to a door just waiting to bring an opportunity raining down on us together.

I may or may not have just sparked the inception of our phenomenal, adorable, and never ending flirting that was to evolve between the two of us.


	4. Titanium

**Counting Stars (Chapter 4)**

Titanium 

* * *

"It sounds like this guy is mildly attracted to you." That was my mother's first impression of Sherlock after I'd gone home and woke up the next morning to a scent of toasty breakfast. I had a fixation of sitting on the kitchen counter while my parents cooked food, my legs too short as they dangled over the edge with my oxygen tank mounted on the tiled floor. I rolled my head back and gave her a perplexed stare. My mouth hung open as she giggled over her shoulder.

"Mom —" I started to comeback, but my father cut me off while siding with my mum.

"Why don't you give him a chance? You never know what might happen if you take things slowly."

"Dad!" I bellowed, alarmed. "First off, I'd like to inform you that I am not gay!"

"Uh huh," he teased, mocking my squeaky voice, "and what's the other thing?"

"Yeah, well, I've known him for not even a full day, and people are already getting ideas." I sighed and leaned my head back against a wooden cabinet, my parents snickering while they scraped some scrambled eggs onto my plate.

"That's the joy of being a teenager," my dad implied, "you get to meet new faces that lit up your world."

The cannula bounced behind my ears as I shook my head to bring up a remarkable point, spit building up in my throat. "You are just trying to get me to go further with Sherlock. You say that being a teenager is about living life to the fullest, but I can't do that because of my downfall."

"John!"

I kept ranting on, somehow becoming angrier with each word, but when I rolled onto the subject of escaping into the world as a responsible human I calmed down. "I will never get as many chances as others because I have a disease. I am not normal." I pointed my touching fingers to my chest, right above where my malfunctioning lungs still carried on to their maximum. "Nobody wants any interest in me because they don't see who I am, what I have to struggle with every day, and how I deal with the universe. If you want me to be a teenager then I need to get out more. I'm stuck in this house for almost eighteen hours a day, sitting and watching boring television —"

"Because you're depressed!" My mom would not disregard the idea that I suffered in life.

I made a distorted face and slammed my palms onto the marble beside my hips. "Just because I read the same book over and over again doesn't mean I'm depressed! Maybe I just like the adventure it takes me on. There are plenty of people in England that don't read altogether."

"Why don't you just enjoy the things you have?" My father clearly wanted to stay out of the heated argument, cause he kept his mouth shut and took a leisurely seat at the dining room table, watching us like we were acting out a dramatic Shakespeare play while sipping his roast coffee.

"School. Cancer. Food. Sleep. That's all I get mum. I don't think you understand that. That is all I'm gonna get." I flat out said it to her face so she'd process it properly. "You want me to have a chance, to be a proud son; well this is the only chance I may get. And sending me to support group is not going to make this any better."

My mother sighed and sagged her collarbone. But she wasn't the first to answer. My father, lounging back in with his army mug weaved between his fingers, understood the message I was getting to right away. And he said it like it was mentioned in an everyday conversation.

"So you're saying you will spend time with this guy? Possibly, get closely 'comfortable' with him? Hook up, share a few, special moments?" He was having too much enthusiastic fun with this. He just grinned and raised his eyebrows, waiting for my socially awkward response.

The strain to keep the smirk off my lips ceased to hold back, and the snickering smile came and sent the oxygen wire digging into my puffy cheeks. "Maybe not…get so intimate, but I'll give it a shot."

"That's my boy!" I winked at him. There's goes my heterosexuality in one open family talk.

And I fished out a little secret opinion that I meant 100%. "He's pretty cute, actually." Going from pissed off to child energetic in thirty seconds flat. I giggled and hopped off the counter, my shoulders rising up to my ears as I blushed.

"And halleluiah, I have a brother that likes boys."

"Harriet…"

"Morning." Trust my dad to end tension in any rude remark.

"So, you got two problems with me now?" I questioned, locking my hands on my hips with the tube in my nose shifted.

"I did not imply anything." Twenty-one years old, her brain was starting to collapse in the back of her skull. The first thing she grabbed out of the refrigerator shelf was a light beer. Harry always made sure it was low in calories so she could have at least three a day. Her drinking problem never got in the way of her daily life; she'd had even less friends than I did, but the amount of alcohol she consumed never deprived her of staying sober. I'm amazed at how she can handle that.

And just to make me feel ticked off, she smokes cigarettes too, but luckily outside on the back porch.

"Well, I'll just throw it out there now, because no one should be afraid to express who they really are with a conspicuous heart. So I'll lay this out nicely for you. Yes I've got cancer, sucks I know, and for the record, sure, I am interested in a boy. But I'm not entirely gay, most likely bisexual."

"Gross."

"Harriet Watson…!" And my mother's got a fire in her spirit. But I spat back too quickly for anyone to stop me.

"Says the lesbian of the household!" I went too far. She pointed a finger at me but the madness drinking gave her controlled her body to shove me, hard onto the floor. My legs crumbled and my oxygen tank yanked pressure on my ears and nose, causing my wrist to bend twisted under my backside.

"AHHHHHHH!" I fell lopsided and not only panicked from my arm but additionally I couldn't breathe. And my sister got a good shouting at as I sat, panting as my dad came to tend and aid me. But I couldn't hear because my ears were blocked and a sort of ringing entered from my right.

"You okay?" my male parent asked, and I blinked rapidly from the dizziness in my head. Gasping, he held me in my arms, and I clung onto his shirt sleeve for support. Harriet left the house altogether and started up the old car, backing down the driveway and speeding down the road to her girlfriends place I suspected.

"Oh John, are you okay?"

"Yeah." They both helped me extend my knees to stand up, adjusting my oxygen tank as I finagled the cannula so it was fastened securely.

"You better watch your mouth too young man," my mother warned, leading me over to the table where my first morning meal was getting cold. "You've got some serious studying to do this afternoon."

* * *

I was relaxing on my bed around four P.M. when I got a phone call. From none other than Sherlock Holmes too. I picked up without dialing any numbers and spoke my first word to him that day.

"Bonjour."

"Ah. Tu parles français?"

"A little. So what do you want 'genius boy'?"

"I think you'd be pleased to know that I started reading your book."

I sat up in my bed, the pillows poofing out after I'd left a dent in their surfaces for a couple hours. And I could only come up with one word to talk back with. "Really?"

"Would I lie to you John Hamish?"

"Will you stop calling me that?"

"What's the fun in that? How about 'JH', is that okay?"

"Why don't you just stick with John? That is my regular title after all."

"I like to spice things up a bit John Hamish." I made a little excited squeak on the phone and he heard me, but I covered my mouth in innocence.

"So how far are you?" I piped up, sitting on the edge of my mattress like a jumpy cat.

"They just crossed through Mirkwood and met the elves."

"Jesus, you're that far already?"

"In my free time, books occupy half of my life."

"And what about the other 50%?" I asked in a dazed wonderland.

"Uh, let's see…" He paused through the static of the phone background and considered his thoughts. "Maybe 10% family, 1% school slash support group..." He made a disgusted groan with the roll of his tongue before continuing, "And 1% cancer."

"Only 1% dedicated to cancer? Hell, I'd say it's three fourths of my life."

"Well John, if you're in recovery, I think you would consider the same as well." I counted on my fingers and noticed he left a blank spot in his story.

"You left out an extra 38%," I calculated. "What's that for?"

"Hmm…" He paused and said the next few sentences as sarcastically as possible. It was way too easy for me to decipher that he was fooling around with my mind. "What could it be for indeed…?" His deep voice rose in pitch and dragged in certain sections of his speech.

"Sherlock…Stop messing with me."

"It's for you." The casual tone struck me like a pounding sensation of gratitude, and my palm cupped my mouth as I tried not to squeal in excitement.

Instead of complimenting him too I laughed a little and just shook my head back and forth. "You sly devil, you."

* * *

At dinner on Thursday I had my math book set beside my elbow, chomping on a portion of French fries my mom had baked when my phone buzzed and I looked up gingerly to check if anyone had noticed. Harriet was missing for the time being and I reached into my back pocket to retrieve my mobile device. Sherlock was impatient and wouldn't wait till I'd finished eating to text me.

**That's it? It ends with them sharing a tobacco jar? I want more! –SH**

I smiled at my lap under the table to make sure no one saw. I sealed my lips shut and sent a message back.

**I take it you enjoyed the book? –JW**

**He writes us this whole book on this epic journey, he gets back home to the Shire and then poof, nothing? –SH**

I pondered his suggestion before adding a reasonable extension to his puzzled, complex brain.

**Why don't you come up with an epilogue or something? –JW**

**Damn. John Hamish, you are absolutely right. –SH**

I snorted a little too loudly to have polite manners. "John, do you need to be excused?" my father wondered. I didn't hear at first. When he coughed, I looked up in a dreamy reality.

"What?"

* * *

My parents took my phone until after I'd finished eating, by which point I'd rushed out to the backyard lawn as quickly as my lungs would allow and sat on the fresh scented grass. I called him the second my left foot hit the polished wood on the porch, and I huffed as I went down the couple steps as Holmes picked up on the other end of the line.

"You would not believe the odd little attraction I am stuck in because of one book," he said.

Yep. Seemed accurate. "Welcome to the world of Tolkien," I commented. "Please enjoy your stay." That was just to joke around. "Although I forgot to add, there is a sequel.  _The Lord Of The Rings_ trilogy."

"So I've been aware. I find it to be very fascinating."

"I love your extensive range of vocabulary." He grinned on even though I couldn't see him, I just knew it.

"I always try and entertain." His muffled voice was so soothing.

"And you know there are movies too," I provided the information. "The Hobbiton set is still up for tourists to visit."

He was silent for a while before sounding interested once more. "And where might this movie set be located?"

"New Zealand. Halfway across the globe. I'd love to set it, but with my conditions, only a powerful wish could assist me with that."

"Well, I think we could make some arrangements." My cell phone vibrated and I put Sherlock on speaker to do two tasks at once. An alert showed up from surprisingly Molly Hooper with a request to go out later in the week.

"Oh lord," I complained.

"What be the matter John Hamish?" He spoke through his teeth in a catchy phrase.

"I've been invited to go shopping with the ladies Saturday morning."

"Ladies as in…?"

"Hooper and Morstan." I'm not entirely sure why I addressed them by their last names.

"Boring."

"Not your fancy?"

"Not in the slightest."

"Me either honestly," I told him. "I don't think my lungs could handle it anyways."

"Just go."

"Excuse me?"

"For them. You may hate buying stuff, but you don't have to. I promise. It'll just be a fun day. If you need to sit, then do so. They'll understand." I sighed and closed the text message from my other friend. "I'll just see you on Sunday for lousy support group, okay?" Something in his last word turned me on. It was sexy all day long.

"Okay."

His lips made a popping noise in satisfaction. "Okay."

"Is this a thing now for us now?" I asked, amused. "Will 'okay' always be a communication thing only for us?"

"You know it pretty boy."

"Good god…"

"What?"

"Nothing. I just find your outbursts, cute." I openly expressed it. Now he knew I loved him, which was the truth. I was just hiding it from the rest of society.

"Well, I find your face to be adorable." I smiled so wide I rolled over onto my stomach. Absolutely in a little infinity, I had to say goodbye.

"I have to bid thee farewell. I'll see you soon, okay?"

"Always."

* * *

Going to the mall with two girls, not just one makes me feel wrapped up. Especially since they're both close buddies and people stare when we walk by, partially because I'm a bisexual sixteen-year-old who doesn't look like it and has lung cancer and on the other hand because I'm just casually strolling through a shopping center with two pretty ladies.

They insisted we go to a shoe department store first, and I just put my head in a single hand and exhaled monstrously. But nevertheless, it was a breather for my legs so I could sit while they tried on sneakers, boots, heels, you name it. I myself even looked dashing in a new pair of black converse, but I didn't have the small fortune to afford them. Molly and Mary, I guess the two M girls, figures, came out with two or three pairs each and I only then remembered we'd only been through one store.

It was literally the same routine with each shopping building we went to. The happy females skipped gleefully through the racks of blouses or shorts, searching for some flattering summer outfits. And I'd just wait patiently for them to finish before we moved on. It was only till we stopped for lunch that I was released from the horror, chewing and swallowing a light salad with some of my favorite ripe vegetables.

And when they announced we would be visiting a store filled with bathing suits for women and all sorts of colored bikinis, I had to call Holmes to get me out of the mess.

He picked up the instant he saw on speed dial it was me.

"What can I do for you my fantastic blogger?"

All I told him was, "Save me."

He knew what I meant. Didn't even have to be told twice.

* * *

The evening wasn't any better. I forgot there was a lonely swing set behind the house, almost propped up against a white fence that bordered out property. The red bottoms of the swings were flat, and a tiny slide reminded me of childhood memories while I had endless fun outside. It now only came up to my hips in height, but I sat and rocked backward and forward to kill some time.

And then my phone rang. No hesitation whatsoever, I accepted the call from Sherlock Holmes.

"Hey. What's up?"

"John Hamish, can you do me a favor and come over here. It's urgent."

"Why?!" I sat up in a panic and thought he was in trouble or hurt. "What's wrong?" But then I was interrupted by a loud noise hollering over the sweetness of Sherlock's voice.

"What the hell?" I couldn't make out what the madness was over at his home. "Is everything alright?" He could sense the tightness in the back of my throat.

"Yeah, I'm grand. It's actually Greg Lestrade that's having a row right now."

I scrunched my eyebrows and sniffed through my nose tube. Clarify the unbelievable situation, I asked, "Is that what the absurd noises I hear are coming from?"

"The wailing?" Sherlock reasoned. "Yeah. Um, that's just it. It's actually Lestrade trying to sing a sappy love song. Can you please get your butt over here? I can't bear to listen to this for much longer. I know you live like seven minutes away." I didn't even get the chance to claim I would. He probably just assumed I would tag along because, he was fond of me. I was his trusty companion.

And he hung up on me…


End file.
